


Not a Crime

by Yitzock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Coming Out, Gen, Genderfluid, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Sherlock, Makeup, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Sherlock, Self-Acceptance, Sherlock's Hair, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-01 07:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yitzock/pseuds/Yitzock
Summary: Sherlock is genderfluid. They keep it a secret for a while, even though it's hard. After playing with their appearance for a while, they decide one day to come out to John before they get a new case.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock rolled out of bed and threw on their blue dressing gown without doing up the belt and padded barefoot to the bathroom. After flicking on the light, Sherlock leaned forward towards the mirror.

“Approximately five millimetres of growth…” they murmured. They tugged lightly at a few strands of hair at the front and sides of their head, eyeing how much farther they came down from the last time they checked a couple of weeks before. After playing with the strands a while, they fluffed their hair vigorously before turning off the light and heading to the kitchen.

John’s jacket and shoes were missing, plus there was a plate of toast crumbs on the counter. Sherlock figured he had left about an hour ago. They realized they had not stopped smiling since they had admired their hair in the mirror, so perhaps it was better that John was not there at the moment. They were not sure they wanted to explain why they were pleased to see their hair grow.

It was not always like this. In fact, this was the third time that Sherlock had tried letting their hair grow longer. Granted, they never kept their hair as short as most men did, but generally speaking they kept it as short as it was for convenience and because, most of the time, that was what they liked. But there were times when they wanted it longer. These times did not last, but when they happened they would decide they wanted their hair to grow and would let it go beyond the usual length at which they typically would go to the salon.

They found it rather fun to track the progress, as they had done this particular morning. It was a little transgression of masculinity, a little sign that they were what they were even if it was indicated to nobody but themselves.

After breakfast, Sherlock went back to the bathroom to look in the mirror again. They found it rather silly, to be fixated on this; they would have to wait a few more weeks, at least, before the growth got more noticeable. But they could not help themselves. They tried pushing their fringe to the side, just to see how far it reached now, before brushing it back over their forehead. It would not reach their eyebrows in its natural curly state for a while yet, but it was getting there.  
They brushed their teeth then went to get dressed, slipping into their trousers and buttoning up their shirt. It was a bit looser than some of their others, not bringing as much attention to the form of their body.

They pulled out a small zipped case from their secret hiding place in their room and went back to the bathroom. They took out the lipstick tube from inside the case and rotated the base, exposing the light pink cylinder. Before beginning, they paused to listen for any noises to make sure that John was not coming home. Satisfied that they were alone, they began applying the product.

Once this was done, they rubbed their lips together before looking at themselves in the mirror. It was only a little bit darker than their lips’ natural colour, enough that it could look like they were not wearing lipstick at all if nobody looked closely. But also enough of an alteration for Sherlock to notice.

They then pulled the eyeliner pencil out and looked at it. They were still not sure they were comfortable enough to wear it outside the flat, but they wanted to try it. They were just lifting it to their eye when they heard John enter the flat. They put the makeup away quickly and rinsed off the lipstick.

“Hello, John!” they called, so as not to seem suspicious.

* * *

 

Sherlock was walking on the streets with John when they saw them. The shoes were beautiful, but Sherlock was not ready to openly express that they had noticed this fact since they were with John. He could be understanding of things, but Sherlock was still not ready to test out his feelings about gender fluidity.

The shoes were red leather, with a small, practical heel – less than an inch – and had a wing tip design. Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to them and thought the shoes would look good with their black trousers. But they were women’s shoes, so Sherlock did not speak of their interest in them.

* * *

 

Sherlock went back to the shop where they saw the shoes the next day while John was at work. They dismissed an employee’s question if they needed help, since they knew exactly what they were looking for. After locating the shoes, they were unsure of whether they would find any in their size, but fortunately there was a single pair. They took one shoe out of the box and ran their fingers over its surface. They were even more beautiful up close and just to Sherlock’s taste.

After a few moments, they put the shoes back in the paper and closed the box. They were about to put the box back on the shelf, but then they paused. It did not have to be this way. Sherlock went to the front of the shop, paid for the shoes and brought them home to the flat, hiding them away in the same place where they kept their makeup.

* * *

 

John wasn’t home. Sherlock took out the things that they kept hidden. They put the red shoes on and then went into the bathroom to apply their lipstick. They fluffed their hair, noticing it had grown another six millimetres and was starting to become more noticeably different.

They strutted around the flat in the shoes. They had been right about how they looked with the trousers. And they felt good, androgynous on a bit more of the feminine side, but not too much.

And then they heard John’s footsteps on the stairs approaching the flat. They ran as fast as they could back to their bedroom to hide everything, and in the fifteen seconds it took for John to climb the stairs and announce his arrival home, Sherlock had closed the door and begun taking the shoes off their feet.

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes hunted down criminals, so they knew what horrible things some people did, as well as what constituted a crime. So why did they feel like they were hiding a crime from John in keeping their makeup and shoes, set aside for more feminine-leaning days, a secret?

They had even gone into a store once to try on a skirt and blouse, but not to buy them, and had emerged from the fitting room in their usual suit feeling like they were getting away with something they should not have been allowed to do. They did not even like skirts that much, just the femininity they could imply. They did like ruffled blouses, though, but did not dare buy one.

They were not committing a crime. Today everyone dresses how they please, why should Sherlock be any different? They already did so much without caring too much what others thought. Or at least, they tried.

* * *

  
John would be home soon. They left the shoes in the bedroom, but went into the bathroom. They put the lipstick on and lined their eyes the way they had practised.

They fussed over their hair in the mirror for quite some time, fluffing it in the right places and adjusting the fringe repeatedly. They were enjoying how long it had become, but they were not yet accustomed to how it hung at this length.

They heard the front door open, followed by John’s familiar footsteps.

They put the makeup case away in its place and then entered the living room.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock saw him glance at them funny, but they did not say anything.

The two of them went into the kitchen, where Sherlock had a partially finished experiment that they had had to let sit, which Sherlock now resumed. John murmured something about needing a good cup of tea and put the kettle on. After he did so, he kept looking at Sherlock with the same expression as before.

“Sherlock,” he said.

“Hm?” Sherlock mumbled nonchalantly as they continued examining the samples.

“Did you get a haircut or something?”

“No,” Sherlock replied.

“I was sure that was it, but if it’s not, then I still can’t figure out why you look different,” John said. “When you walked out of your room, you seemed a little cautious, but at the same time you seemed happy. Is that something to do with it?”

Sherlock looked at John, smirking, “You’re getting better at observing. Splendid improvement. But you’re still not quite there.”

John scanned Sherlock again.

“No, your hair’s definitely longer…” he murmured. “Are you wearing coloured contact lenses? Your eyes seem different.”

Sherlock laughed quietly. They were enjoying the game now. “Wrong again. Really observe.”

Sherlock smiled at John’s frustrated concentration. And then John’s face suddenly changed, clearly realising what he had not noticed before.

“Makeup,” he said simply. Sherlock nodded their head once to affirm John’s observation. “Is it a disguise?”

Sherlock’s face changed, their grin disappearing. This was not a game anymore. “No, John. Just the opposite.”

John looked puzzled again. “What’s the opposite of a disguise?”

Ice crept into Sherlock’s voice, putting up their familiar defenses. “I didn’t think you were such an idiot that you’d need me to tell you the answer to that question.”

John did not say anything in reply, but looked like he had come to a conclusion.

“I’m not always a man, John,” Sherlock said, feeling it was time to explain. “I’m not a woman, but sometimes I don’t feel like a man. Inside. I like to wear makeup some of that time.”

John did not say anything for a moment, before letting out a breath and speaking again. “I thought you were going to tell me you’re a woman.”

“Would it bother you if I was a woman?”

“No.”

“Does it bother you that I’m genderfluid?”

“That you’re… what?”

“Genderfluid. My gender is different at different times. Moves about on the spectrum. Changes from time to time. Whatever explanation you like.”

“I don’t think I completely understand,” John admitted. “But I’d like to learn. And no, it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t matter to me if you wear makeup. I just wasn’t expecting it, you know?”

Sherlock smiled a little again. “I wasn’t expecting it, either, when I first started to feel this way.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have. I remember when Harry first realised she liked women. She was surprised. Scared, too, until she realized it wasn’t a bad thing be gay.”

John looked them directly in the eye.

“Sherlock,” he asked, “are you scared?”

“Scared of what?”

“Of being,” he paused and spoke the next word carefully “…genderfluid?”

Sherlock averted his gaze. They did not like to be sad in front of John, but they knew they were letting their mask slip. “Yes.” Their voice trembled slightly.

The two of them sat in silence again – Sherlock counted a minute pass – before another word was spoken.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him. “I don’t know,” they said. “And you know I don’t like not knowing.”

John poured tea into two mugs and walked around to his side of the table, setting one down in front of him and handing the other one to Sherlock.

* * *

  
John and Sherlock walked into Scotland Yard to see Lestrade regarding a particularly nasty murder case that Sherlock was loving so far. It concerned two headless bodies found in a garbage dump. They discussed with Lestrade before they got a call about another body found, this time in the park. Lestrade was taking the car, but John and Sherlock decided to walk.

Sherlock’s red shoes looked wonderful, and they were even more comfortable for walking the London streets than they had predicted.

They went everywhere in those shoes during that case, and everyone at the Yard came to recognize the sound of those shoes’ soles on the floor and know that it signalled that Sherlock was coming.

They spent a lot of time hearing Sherlock’s footsteps pacing back and forth as they thought over the details of the case. Molly came to hear them a lot as well, as Sherlock had a lot of evidence to analyse at Bart’s. She complimented Sherlock on their shoes, but they brushed off the comment. Inside, however, they were pleased.

* * *

  
There were a lot of reporters and photographers outside their door at Baker Street after this case was done. It was the most-followed one yet, with every gruesome discovery making the front page of all the papers.

It had been a gruelling six months, with many long days and sleepless nights for Sherlock and John. John swore that they both had become thinner and the exhaustion on their faces was evident.

Sherlock checked themselves in the mirror before they went out to see the press. They had not had a proper shower in a couple of days; their hair was sticking in all directions from the greasiness and repeated frustrated ruffling they had been subjecting it to, even as they neared the end of the case. It had grown much too long – it had become annoying even to their feminine side in this impractical state. They would deal with it the next day.

They fussed over their hair, but they could not get it to behave. In desperation, they hastily pushed their fringe to the side and put the deerstalker on.

“Let’s get this over with, then,” they said to John before heading down the steps to the front door. The two exchanged a nod before heading into the onslaught of questions and camera flashes.

Amid all of the serious matters at hand, a few reporters did not let the red shoes Sherlock was wearing escape their notice.

Sherlock soon was not only the “hat detective” – though that classification was a bit reductive, given the high profile and seriousness of the cases they took on – but also the detective with the red shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has come out to John as genderfluid and John is accepting of them, but is there such thing as being too accepting?

Sherlock ran their hand over the back of their neck.  In the weeks during which they had let their hair grow, they had become unaccustomed to what it felt like for their hair to be that close.  They liked it; it felt lighter. They lowered their hand as they stepped back inside the flat after the walk home from the salon a few blocks away.

“Hey, Sherlock” John said from his chair by the fireplace, looking up from his newspaper.  His face changed from casual cheerfulness to surprise when he registered the change in Sherlock’s appearance.  “Wow, you really cut it short.”

“It’s the same as I always get it cut,” Sherlock responded plainly.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” John replied.  “I just thought that you weren’t going back to that, that’s all.”

“What did you think I meant when I said I was getting a haircut?”

“Well, I just thought you were going to have longer hair from now on.  You know, because…” John had said the word before, but he still felt unsure using it. He still felt as though it was not his place to use it even if he knew what it meant.

“John, I told you, I’m not a woman.  I’m not becoming something else that I wasn’t before.  I’m the same as I’ve always been, which includes having the same hair.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to hide anymore.”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation.  “I’m not hiding.”

“All right then,” John said after a moment’s pause, looking back at his paper.  “Take your time.”

Sherlock, tired of the conversation, hung up their coat and slumped into their chair with the book they were currently reading about a murder in Edwardian England.

* * *

 

A few days after they got their hair cut, Sherlock came home to see John sitting in his chair holding his newspaper, but clearly not actually focused on it. John was hiding something, Sherlock deduced, and continued the act with a greeting that tried and failed to seem natural.

“Oh! Sherlock!” John said, folding the paper and placing it aside. “I was wondering when you would get home. I have a surprise for you.”

“It’s not my birthday,” Sherlock said, watching John stand up excitedly and bend down behind his chair, revealing a box that had been hidden behind it. “It’s not a holiday, and certainly not one marked by secular gift-giving.”

“Just open it, you git!” John teased affectionately, holding the box out to Sherlock. Sherlock took it from him, knowing they had no choice.

They sat down on the sofa, placing the box on their lap. They peeled off the plain white paper, revealing a similarly plain white box underneath. Sherlock did not see a logo on it, but did not bother to check the side of the box they could not see where the box’s provenance would have been made plain. They removed the lid and looked at the contents.

Sherlock did not register what it was right away. At first it looked like some indiscernible mass of matter on some sort of vertical structure. But then they realized what it was and lifted it out of the box to get a better look.

John had bought Sherlock a wig. It was made up of hair that was dark and curly like Sherlock’s, but in a style that was longer than what Sherlock wore. It looked similar to their hair when it had grown out, but a bit neater.

“Now you can have long hair whenever you want to,” John said happily.

Sherlock wished they should share their flatmate’s sentiment. They understood where John was coming from, but they had not asked for this.

“Er…” Sherlock murmured.

“I looked online for a wig shop in London and searched through their entire selection to find this one. It’s a good match, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sherlock admitted.

“Do you want to try it on?”

“Perhaps another time,” Sherlock said, placing it back in the box and moving it aside to go hang up their coat, which they had not had the chance to remove when they first returned to the flat.

John looked a little hurt at Sherlock’s hardly lukewarm response to the gift, but that did not last long. “That’s OK,” he said. “You can try it whenever you’re ready.”

Things were becoming strange between them and this was not the only instance of that. Sherlock noticed that John seemed to always feel the need to be supportive of Sherlock’s choices in a way he had never done before.

“That shirt looks good on you,” he had said one morning after Sherlock had emerged from their room, ready to meet Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Sherlock had not put much thought into the choice of shirt that day, but they looked down at it and wondered if John had mentioned it because purple was sometimes seen as a feminine colour.

* * *

 

“Sherlock! There you are!” Lestrade said when he saw Sherlock entering his office. “Come and take a look at this.” He gestured for Sherlock to approach to look at some photos and a document that had recently been found in relation to their current murder case.

“These photographs were taken in Trafalgar Square,” Sherlock murmured, recognizing the surroundings. “Not far from where the corpse was found. But the dirt on the corpse’s shoes didn’t match the composition of the ground there. The corpse had been moved.”

“You think so?” Lestrade said, although he immediately regretted it, knowing that Sherlock was nearly always sure.

“Maybe that’s what these emails we recovered were about,” Lestrade continued. “I didn’t understand what it was referring to before, but there’s a particularly strange phrase that sands out: ‘transporting the pigs.’”

“That would be a code.” Sherlock then pointed to another photograph. “And look, there. There’s an image of a pig in the window of that building. It must be how the network communicates.”

“I’ll send a team over there right away.”

“I’ll meet them there,” Sherlock replied, dashing out the door.

“Wait! Sherlock!” Lestrade cried out, sure it was a bad idea, but he realized that he could not stop Sherlock Holmes once they were set on something. He gathered what he needed and picked up the phone to put his plan into action.

As Sherlock ran out the door, the thrill of a case that would soon be coming to a close pumped through their veins. They did not realize until they were halfway to where they were expecting to find the apparent suspect that the conversation with Lestrade, unlike any they had lately had with John, was completely normal.

* * *

 

They had been right. Sherlock entered the building right after Lestrade’s team and discovered the crime ring in the midst of a meeting. The team secured the area and Sherlock, to their chagrin, made a few final compromising deductions about the crime ring and the members’ characters.

“Well done,” Lestrade told Sherlock after everything had been cleared and the investigation team were well on their way to taking everything that they needed for the finalization of the arrest and the upcoming legal proceedings.

“Thank you, Greg,” Sherlock said. “The pleasure, as usual, is all mine, I’m sure.”

Lestrade laughed and led them to his car. “I’ll take you over to the Yard and then to Baker Street. Is John in the mood for a pint this weekend?”

“A pint, I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, their shoulders sagging before they stepped inside the car. “But he has been in the mood for saying anything he thinks will be validating for me. I’m glad he hasn’t become hostile towards me or uncomfortable being around me since I came out to him, but since then he’s been making it virtually impossible to relax. I can’t do anything without him telling me in some way that he accepts me.”

“Do you want me to talk to him? Maybe he needs someone who’s not as close to the topic to unload on and think things through a bit.”

“Thank you, Greg, but I have a plan.”

* * *

 

Before John got home that evening, Sherlock put on the red shoes and sat down on the sofa. They waited and waited until John came in the front door.

“Hey, Sherlock!” he said in the overly-friendly tone he had adopted during recent weeks.

“Good evening, John,” Sherlock said as John hung up his jacket. “Could you please sit down for a moment?”

John’s face shifted to a serious expression. “Sure.” He sat down, leaning forward to indicate to Sherlock that he had their full attention.

“John,” Sherlock began, “I appreciate your unfaltering acceptance of me. I really do.”

“It’s not a problem, Sherlock,” John interjected. “I’d be happy to do anything for you.”

“Yes, John. _I know that_. And it’s great. But I must tell you that you do not need to keep reminding me of that every time we spend time together. I know you want to show your support but you don’t need to be so…insistent about it. I’m a grown person, John. I don’t need your validation of everything to feel good about it. You can defend me if I ever need it, though in my current situation I have practically no concern about how others may treat me. But I don’t need you drawing attention to my gender for the sake of telling me it’s fine. I know it’s fine.”

John looked taken aback, but Sherlock could tell that the information was sinking in. He slowly began to look guilty.

“I just wanted you to know that I’m on your side,” John said. “This is new to me and I’m doing my best to show that I don’t like you any less for it.”

“Yes, John. But remember, I’m the same person as I always was,” Sherlock continued, keeping their voice calm and controlled. “I need you to really understand that. I don’t want you to treat me any differently. Yes, I may want to wear women’s shoes sometimes – when I can find them in my size – and wear makeup from time to time. No, it’s not just a costume, but underneath it all, I’m not any different, or any more or any less than who I was before. I would like you to treat me as such. You never felt the need to always compliment my fashion choices before, so I don’t need you to do that now. I told you that I was sometimes scared of what life would mean for me being genderfluid, and part of that fear was that nobody important to me would treat me the same way as they did before.”

John did not speak; he only nodded. The guilt was still on his face, but so was a growing sense of understanding. After sitting there in thought for a while, he abruptly got up from his seat.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m going to return the wig I bought you,” John replied plainly. “You don’t need it, do you? You don’t want it. You never asked me to get it for you.”

“Wait,” Sherlock said, getting up from the sofa and extending their arm out to signal for John to stop. They went into their room and emerged with the wig box.

“I should have no problem returning it,” John said. “You’ve hardly touched it.” John moved to take the box from Sherlock, but Sherlock moved the box out of his reach.

“It can’t hurt to try it once, can it?” Sherlock said, a smile beginning to curl one side of their mouth.

“What?” John asked in disbelief.

Sherlock set the box down, opened it and removed the wig. They went over to the mirror above the fireplace and placed the wig on their head, pushing their own hair up under it.

“Now, I’ve never put one of these things on before,” they said as they fiddled with it, “and I believe that a bit more preparation would be required to wear it properly, but I think this looks about right for our purposes.” They turned back around, making their way towards John, who had not moved except for his widening eyes. Sherlock grinned. “How is it? Honestly.”

“Honestly?” John said, deadpan. “I don’t think it suits you.”

“It’s really dreadful,” Sherlock replied before they both began to giggle. “I don’t know what you were thinking. I look like someone’s grandmother.”

“Hey! I think it was a valiant effort. It is your colour, after all.”

“But the style is only right in theory. Even I thought it was close to how my hair looked when I grew it long, but it misses the mark.”

The two of them laughed before Sherlock removed the wig from their head and placed it neatly back on the wig stand and then back in the box. They closed the box and handed it to John. “Here you go.”

“I’ll return it tomorrow morning,” John said. “I’m starved. It’s time for supper.”

* * *

 

The next morning, neither John nor Sherlock had to work, so they went together to the shop where John had purchased the wig. Sherlock browsed the rows upon rows of wigs while John returned the one that he had bought. They overheard John explaining that his sister had not liked the wig. Sherlock chuckled, wondering whether the shop owner would notice the similarity between the wig and Sherlock’s own hair and figure out who the gift had really been intended for.

When he was finished, John joined Sherlock where they were looking around.

“See anything you like?” he asked, being sure he spoke quietly enough for the shopkeeper not to hear him. Sherlock shook his head. “Alright, then, let’s go.”

As they walked along the sidewalk away from the wig shop, they began to pass by some clothing stores. Sherlock slowed their pace to look in the windows, no longer feeling the need to hide from John their interest in clothing styles marketed to any gender.

They came to a complete stop in front of one of the windows. In it was a mannequin on display that wore grey, slim-legged women’s trousers and a cream-coloured blouse with flowing sleeves. Sherlock gazed at it for a few moments before resigning themselves and moving on. But as they turned their head, they saw that John was preventing them from taking more than a few steps away from the shop.

“You like it, don’t you?” John said, firmly but kindly. “Why not try it on?” He walked past Sherlock to the door of the shop, opening it and standing aside like a doorman. His hand gesture said, “after you.”

Sherlock stood there uncomfortably before letting out a quiet laugh and stepping towards the door.

“You’re right, John,” they said. “Why not?”


End file.
